


The Tevinter Coin

by freebornpirate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ASL, American Sign Language, Betaed, Haven (Dragon Age), M/M, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Slavery, Slow Burn, Tevinter Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freebornpirate/pseuds/freebornpirate
Summary: Dorian Pavus is a man of stature and luxury from Tevinter. Lerith is an elf bound in slavery from the same country. What will happen when two sides of the same coin meet?
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	1. Unlikely Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as chapters are posted, notes made at the beginning of potential content warnings (cw) and/or trigger warnings (tw)

If “sanctuary” had a picture, Dorian Pavus would have never thought it to be in Redcliffe of all places, let alone in Ferelden. 

Most would think of it as the Chantry, with its Chanters lingering outside the door and their statues of Andraste; or some sort of fortress decorated with the most lavish tapestries of dogs and beer, or whatever rich Fereldans liked. No; in that small tavern that smelled of ale and hound, Dorian had found a safe place to hide from whatever his father was concocting. His father _and_ Alexius for that matter.

A sigh, and another drink ordered. 

Even dressed in this drab outfit of cotton and buckles, Dorian had stood out amongst Ferelden fashion. Given the mass confusion of the Breach and possibly his own dashing presence of fashion, he and his magical skull topped staff had been overlooked. The flash of his trinkets unnoticed. Clearly he was the best dressed person in the room, and possibly country. He’d hate to think he was being _ignored,_ of all things. 

From the man’s vantage point by the window, the breach festered like an open wound in the sky and it was the prime topic of conversations around him. Anything to break up the monotonous news of bears, dogs, and farming apparently. With Dorian’s mind so focused on Alexius and Felix and getting the attention of someone that could help the mages, he had almost forgotten about the looming threat of that hole in the sky. The people in town had spoken of the Herald of Andraste, a man from House Trevelyan. Christoph Trevelyan, that was his name. Where were they from again? Ostwick, from the Free Marches if he had remembered his gossip and geography correctly. 

He missed the gossip of the magisterium. And the wine. Really, he missed both. Both went well together and made even more stories to tell. Stories that only author Varric Tethras could come up with sober. It probably was saying quite a bit when it was the gossip and wine that Dorian missed instead of his family. 

The best looking mage of the room recalled sipping what passed for wine in the tavern, then going to the Chantry. A note sent from him by Felix to the Inquisition. Recalled fighting demons and getting assistance by a rogue with dark hair and green eyes. Being recruited into the Inquisition and going through to a place in time where red lyrium and the Venatori festered. Somehow gathering help there, getting back to their usual present before going to Haven. A glass of wine in Haven had barely been better than the one in Redcliffe. It was a bit cheaper at least, which was nice since he was going to drink himself penniless in that little tavern waiting for Felix to deliver his letter. 

Somewhere outside of his memories and the Fade, noises pulled him back to the terrible waking world. Pity. The Fade was an interesting place of dreams when the waking world was cast in a greenish light from above. 

Waking from the doze he was in, the Tevinter man made certain his hair was perfect, his moustache the same, and headed out to see what Haven had in store today. Perhaps more magical fisticuffs with rift demons? Maybe more sermons from Chantry sisters with egos bigger than Giselle‘s hat. Maybe two of Giselle‘s hat. 

That woman certainly could talk. If only there was a spell not frowned upon that could get her to stop. 

Dorian scoffed under his breath before taking up a glass that he filled with wine, and thought of how he should’ve taken some of the better bottles before leaving the estate and country. The red liquid gleamed like the blood magic that his country had running invisible through its streets. Flashes of a different evening, far from this little secluded place that the Inquisition was using as a base. flashing imagery of a man he called a father. Of blades. Of magic the color of that wine. No, think of better things. 

Think of the cold, think of Haven. Yes, yes he could do that. The weather was terrible, and few to converse with. 

At least the wine kept the mage company, unlike the conversations with… what was his name? Solas? His head certainly reflected light like the sun. He chuckled in the present at his own bout of wit, and the elf in question scoffed and headed into his quarters. Well, someone certainly had no sense of humor. 

He was debating on whether or not he should talk to the large one-eyed Qunari and his companions when he heard the quick sounds of someone approaching. Thinking it was Mother Giselle, yet again, coming to stick her nose where it didn’t fit, the Tevinter mage smoothed his mustache and prepared to greet her with his scathing wit after setting the empty glass down. 

Instead, his warm brown eyes showed surprise at the sight of Inquisitor Trevelyan heading to him, with Cassandra and Varric bringing up the rear with him. Dorian quickly made certain his clothing was straight and folded his arms in lieu of greeting. “Ah, Inquisitor Trevelyan, to what do I owe the pleasure? Care for something they try to sell as wine here?”

Christoph Trevelyan, a tall man with green eyes and short dark hair, grinned at the brown skinned mage before him. Though they were still getting to know one another as companions, Dorian found the man‘s humor to be right up his alley. “Perhaps later but something came across my desk that might interest you. Venatori spotted in the Hinterlands.”

Dorian had the grace to keep his surprise from his dashing good looks. “Ah, I see why you’d want to bring me along. Add a bit of style and chem to the whole affair.” Perhaps men sent by his father to return him to Tevinter. If they were in the Hinterlands not long after he had left with the Inquisition, they must have a trail of some sort on him. If there was any time to make that trail go cold, the opportunity was waiting patiently for his answer with Cassandra and Varric on either side of him. 

Dorian wished he had more wine in the glass and felt the aftertaste of regret in finishing the swill. For now, the mage put his most dashing smile on for his small audience. 

“When do we head out? Perhaps they’ll have something that does a better job at passing for wine.”


	2. The Silent Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Christoph Trevelyan goes after some Venatori and picks up another companion while he's out.

It had started with the rain. As soon as the drops plopped from tree leaves into his headscarf, the white haired elf should’ve turned tail back into the caverns. The rain hadn’t lasted long thankfully, but luck was still not on his side. He really should have gone back. Of course, he had not and where was he now? Restrained with hard rope with two masked mages and a larger brute by him.

_Venatori_.

Once they had torn his tattered orange scarf from his head, it was easy for them to see what he was. The tight ring of metal digging into the skin of his neck said what he couldn’t. Twisted scars littered his pale face, disrupting the teal lines of some Dalish god. There was even a deep nick on one ear, close to an ugly scar not even covered by his white hair on the back of his head. 

Despite the Dalish look to him, this was a slave far from where he was supposed to be. There was an engraving on the band, some glyph that glowed red at the touch that looked like what someone might see in Tevinter. Slaves were worth a hefty sum of coin in the northern country’s market, so they would take him back to either find his owner or resell him to someone new there. Coin would help their cause. It would help them continue to sow the seeds of chaos for their Lord Corypheus for his inevitable triumph over Thedas. 

Tied as he was and only a runaway, the elf wasn’t sure if this was a situation he’d be able to get out of. They had his headscarf and his small bag - though why, he wasn’t sure. He was tied up! Maybe there would be some luck and they’d just kill him. At least if he died, it was being free instead of locked in a magister’s villa. Then his ears twitched and he lifted his head.

Noises. 

There were noises all the time at camp, mostly of the fire and the cultists chanting, but this was different. It had a rhythm, which the sound distorted as it rebounded off of the rocks of their little secluded alcove but the main thing was it was getting louder. Closer. A small breathy whimper as the elf struggled to get close to a tent or behind it before he saw the cause of the noise. 

Four horses, with three humans and a dwarf, emerged from the Hinterlands. Apparently their location had not been as secret as the Venatori had hoped. Taken by surprise, the newcomers had the upper hand. An arrow thunked into the support of the tent next to the slave’s head. The sounds of more arrows unleashed mixed with the clanging of metal weaponry. Somewhere towards the front of the camp, the wagon exploded into flame. 

All the elf could do was lay on the ground in hopes that arrows and magic would miss him. 

At one point, as the sounds died down to only… the warrior, he recognized, yellow eyes like gold looked up to see how the fight was going. Two archers, a female warrior and… a mage. Maker, that was a _mage_. Dressed in specific Tevinter fashion as well! Perhaps he shouldn’t have been afraid of the Venatori after all. The way that mage’s skin glowed with the confidence of his spells, the smirk on his face as the magic reflected in his warm eyes… 

A blink of eyes like gold and... 

...It was over.

The dark haired archer was kneeling down before him. Fear took hold of his mind, freezing the elf into place. Anxiety crept like ice in his skin - was this man here to harm? He had a mage in his group, so the potential was there. It took a moment to realize that the man was talking to him, asking him if he was alright. The elf opened his mouth to speak, but only let out a hoarse sound before struggling. The fight or flight instincts tugged at his senses as the ice of terror melted into initiative. He was near a mage and mages were dangerous. This was a Tevinter mage, ready to take him back to the north! 

“It’s alright, we’re not here to harm you at all. We didn’t realize they were taking prisoners. I’m Inquisitor Christoph Trevelyan and these men are with me.” Trevelyan spoke while undoing the rope bindings holding the elf in place. His companions circled about, which cut off escape routes for him. And they had weapons. The mage was looking down at him, a brow raised as he took in the white haired elf. 

“Lord Inquisitor, I think I can see why they’d take such a nice elf hostage. I’ve seen others wearing impressive jewelry like that before in Tevinter, though they were reserved for slaves. I daresay that it hasn’t been a hit during fashion week just yet.” 

The word was out, and the man - the Inquisitor - had a flash of anger in his green eyes. He disliked slavers with a passion and the stories he had heard of Tevinter’s slave market… It sparked an anger that almost had him desecrating the Venatori bodies laying in the grass. Cassandra cooled his temper with a movement. “Is this his?” she asked, holding up a bag and his orange scarf.   
  
The fear making him shake, the elf cautiously took it from her before wrapping his head in the cloth. Safe. Safe space that no one could hurt him in. He strapped on the bag before digging out a well worn journal and stick of charcoal. The Inquisitor took in the form of this scrawny elf scrunched over in fear who was quickly moving through the pages feverishly. Looking for something. 

“Well, do you have a name? Or even speak?” A glance to his companions and the three gave a shrug to Christoph before he turned back to their rescued elf. “Either way, if you’ve no place to go and are being hunted by slavers, you should come back to Haven with us. The Inquisition can offer you protection that being in the open cannot.” 

The tattered journal was handed over to the Inquisitor with a finger pointing at a page that had been written in. The page was old, judging by how worn the edges were and how many charcoal smudges there were covering it. Those eyes of emerald and three other pairs looked over to read what was written. 

All that was written were two simple sentences. ‘I am an involuntary mute. I am Lerith.’

Christoph looked up and handed the book back with a friendly smile. 

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Lerith.”


	3. Staying On One‘s Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds the newest companion for the Inquisition interesting. Will it be worthwhile though?

The rest of the trip was interesting. Christoph seemed quite interested in the newest companion, but really the only thing Dorian noticed about him was how less he seemed to be an elf and more of a skinny twig shaking in a storm. Lerith, as that journal proclaimed him to be, sat near just out of reach of them with his meal balanced on knees. It was hard to tell just how tall he was with how far he curled in on himself. 

An involuntary mute, that had been the explanation for not talking. _Interesting_. There was also the issue of that terrible scarf he wore around his head like a small child clings to a security blanket. Hm. 

Over the course of returning to Haven, Dorian was in good spirits from the victory over the Venatori and even more with the few bottles he had found on them. The mage vowed to not go through them in one sitting with Solas or Giselle. As they traveled over the terrain, he snuck glances to the new companion here and there, who was sharing a horse with Varric. He had slunk away from sharing with Cassandra and the Inquisitor, and nearly tripped over his own feet at the mention of sharing with Dorian.

The mage knew he looked good, but hadn’t had someone literally fall heels over ass for him like this before. A silent joke that had him smirking about it as he thought on it now back at Haven. For now, snow crunched under foot as he closed the distance between himself and Solas. Lerith was unfortunately rooming with him for now, under the mute’s insistence that he did not need his own quarters when others could use it. Or, something like that. That journal was used often to communicate and the elegant mage wasn’t sure if he could deal with it.

“How’s your roommate, Solas? Bored him to sleep yet with your talk of rifts and spirits and the Fade yet?” A smirk to counter Solas‘ slight frown. Ah, it was so lovely to get on someone’s nerves again. Vivienne was too proficient at the Orlesian Game to bite into his bait but sometimes Solas did. 

“Actually, Lerith has been attempting to teach me a different way to understand him.” To prove that, the elf held up his hand and began to make signals with it. “Another elf taught him a language built on signs, but rarely does he find someone else to—”

An interruption. The elf in question came from the shack that belonged to Solas, tattered scarf about his neck and head again, and froze at the sight of Dorian. This time, the dark haired man noted, the elf kept on his feet. Shame. Despite that, he kept a charismatic pose and didn’t move towards the white haired newcomer. “Ah, Lerith. Solas was just informing me of a sign language you’ve been teaching him.” 

He could see uncertainty in the other’s yellow eyes from under the tattered hood. Dorian hadn’t done anything to harm him, so the fear was confusing. Maybe he was scared of mages? Apparently Solas hid that well if Lerith wasn’t afraid of him. Curious circumstances but those circumstances seemed to be Solas‘ forte. Perhaps he had never seen a man so handsome. “Come, have a seat with me and Solas if you will. I wish to hear more of it.”

Crates and barrels of supplies that had been in the “courtyard” of the small homes had been moved, and thankfully replaced with a warm fire. He took a seat on one bench, with the two elves sitting near him. Lerith was immediately digging around in his bag for that tattered journal and Solas gave him the time he needed for it.

Dorian, patient as he was, let his curiosity loose instead. “So where are you from, Lerith? Was it just a stroke of bad luck being caught by the cultists that think they’re doing the work of a higher being?” Maybe one of the answers would give the mage some other things he sought. Like the answer to that fear. 

There was a quick scribbling in the journal, which was held towards Dorian, then to Solas when Lerith realized he wouldn’t reach (or perhaps get too close). The journal was passed until dark brows furrowed. Surely one’s penmanship wasn’t this terrible. Well… terrible yet readable. “Ah, you’re from Tevinter? I’m going to guess you’re a slave from there that just happened to be at the wrong time in the wrong place.” A nod was a sufficient answer but there was an addition. A fist held up and moved up and down from the wrist. 

“Is that your sign language?” Dorian was a smart mage and put two-and-two together to understand the sign for yes. Then it was repeated. Yes. “Interesting; I’ve never met someone that used their hands to speak. What is ‘no’, then? If I know that, perhaps the book can be used less in favor of answering simple questions.”

The elf held the same hand up to tap the tip of his middle and index finger against his thumb-tip. “Ah, so now we have yes and no! Good start.” Yet he wondered now if alcohol would help with this ordeal.With learning a new language… probably not. “So you’re from Tevinter and you’re an escaped slave. Lord Trevelyan spoke true when he said that you’re safe here from slavers. I, too, am from the glorious Imperium and using this as a safe haven from exquisite conversations and fashion. I longed too much for the drab life of cottons and wools.”

There, Dorian was certain there was a hint of a smile amongst the visage crackled with scars. There seemed to be potential for a friend from his home country at least. "Surely you feel the same? Too much luxury is known for the early arrival of wrinkles.“

The journal was scribbled in and handed over. Solas, realizing he was going to be a third wheel in the conversation, got up to leave. The initial fright was there, but the bald elf ignored him in favor of retreating into his abode. 

The tension was there, mostly from the mute. Dorian sat there, holding the precious journal before clearing his throat to read what was written. 'Needed to escape after fifteen years of abuse from a magister. It is why I cannot speak.‘

Well that was unfortunate but it explained why Lerith seemed afraid of him. Did the elf think him to be one of those menacing magisters? Perhaps just another Tevinter that incorporated slavery into their daily life. Many under the Inquisition’s wings thought the same, so it wasn’t an unheard of assumption. The journal was handed back with the same care he’d give to a library book. “You won’t have to worry about that from me. You’re not the only one that fled the country.”

The cracking fire was reflected in his dark eyes as he focused on it for a moment and not the elf he had questioned. A glance over and Lerith looked… uncomfortable yet intrigued? Perhaps he thought no one would ever want to leave such a place if they weren’t a slave or had status of some sort. Dorian knew how elves were treated, and knew that House Pavus treated theirs better than most. Despite that, it wasn’t very _nice_ in how they were treated. 

“Surely we can speak of it another time. Instead have you asked our Herald about removing the collar? It looks far too tight for comfort.” The response was immediate as Lerith pulled the scarf tighter about his face and neck. Hiding into it. Alright, no answer on that one for now. 

“Just from what you’ve told me, I can tell you I have no intention of hurting you. In fact, perhaps over time you’ll see that I’m not like others from Tevinter. No doubt terrible experiences won’t help with that, but if you’re ever looking for a decent drink here, feel free to share one with me.”

The moustached mage could see some of the defensiveness drop at the idea of sharing a drink. Maybe that would be a way to find out more of what Lerith’s perspective of Tevinter was. What sort of man he had to have called an owner. For now though, he’d keep the Tevinter vintage to himself. 


	4. Beer Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly bonding over alcohol raises some things they relate to. And maybe something that they don’t relate on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Speaking"  
> 'Writing'  
> [Signing]

Since the conversation around the fire with Dorian, Lerith made himself more familiar with Haven. The stables were a favorite of his, and the only thing he really missed from Tevinter. Animals in general were better than humans in that country as they could perform spells on you, make you sleep in a cold box made for hauling slaves out as they passed in the night. No; animals were safe and it was thanks to a horse he had stolen from his owner that he managed an escape at all.

For now, he was heading back to Solas’ home after doing some quiet exploring when the door of The Singing Maiden opened by a heavy hand. Snow splashed about his feet for a moment as the mute startled and slouched a little. Always on the defense, ready for the worst to happen –– Oh. 

It was only Dorian.

Laughter rang out from the room behind him before the door was shut once more to cut it off. “Absolute _swill_ I say!” the mage declared loudly as he sauntered away from the tavern towards the elf. Brown eyes lit up at seeing him. “Surely you know what I’m talking about, Lerith?” 

No, the elf did not. Alcohol was alcohol to him – something rare and precious and tasted so few times. Stealing anything from the magister was grounds for punishment or even death. Lerith had enough punishment to fill a lifetime that he wasn’t about to make his life worse on that front. A tap of his fingers for his answer of [no], as he had taught Dorian (and Christoph and Solas). The mustached and handsome mage crossed his arms as a breeze toyed with his neatly styled dark hair and Lerith’s messy white style.

“Mm, yes, I suppose most slave owners aren’t prone to sharing with those they’ve bought. Terrible, keeping such fine labels from you and the others.” Lerith eased his stance enough to stand straighter. Dorian looked him over and smiled. “You’ve got to be the tallest elf I’ve ever seen, or you are when you’re not trying to hide within yourself.” The mute shifted on his feet, then shrugged. He knew Dorian wasn’t drunk, maybe on the edge of tipsy, but didn’t want to bother him with trying to read the journal he wrote in.

Out of habit more than anything, he signed: [I am tall. Tallest elf the magister kept.] The confusion on the mage’s face was enough for Lerith to realize what he had done before looking sheepish. Out came the journal. 

‘Sorry, habit to sign. I am the tallest elf my magister kept.’ Dorian’s dark eyes swept over the words and nodded. “I see. I understood two of the signs I believe. The one for ‘tall’ and one for ‘elf’.” Dorian repeated those back to him, gesturing with a hand a height before mimicking points of his ears with his fingers. [Tall elf?]

[Yes!] Lerith’s eyes were bright like the prophet's laurel at the sight. Of course the movements were lacking finesse but to be able to teach someone so he didn’t have to use his journal all the time felt like _freedom_ . If it was one thing that seemed like a silver lining to being a companion alongside the mage, it was this. The potential to talk to someone else without having to _scribble_. 

“Like that, did you? I imagine it’s like watching an infant say their first few words, but far more charming in demeanor and handsome in looks.” Lerith straightened up to his full height, grinning at the situation. He missed the way Dorian’s eyes swept over him as he instead pushed the journal back into his bag. 

Hands were held up and moved to make two new signs. Two that would probably be used by Dorian often. The first, with a hand stroking the lower left side of his face downward to repeating the motion on the right side. A point at Dorian. [You’re handsome,] followed by what the Tevinter pariah recognized as the ‘C’ against his nose and mouth before being yanked away. Another point at Dorian. 

[You’re fascinating.]

“I hope you’re not making fun of me, though I wouldn’t protest if you did. Vivienne gives me the high class banter I need to feel normal, but we’re missing the gossip part of it sometimes.” A huff that fluffed the moustache for a moment. Lerith rolled his eyes with a small smirk and spelled the words out instead. After a couple of tries, it clicked. “Handsome and fascinating? Me? You might be mute, but you’re definitely not blind, Lerith!”

For a moment, Lerith thought about clapping the other man on the shoulder. Immediately in response, his brain brought up flashing images of a dark room made of blood stained stone with a table altar in the middle with knives and more blood on it. A staggering step at the memory with his yellow eyes going distant.

Warmth on his forearm. Lerith looked to him, pulling his mind back to Haven. Not to _that_ room filled with horrors. Filled with death and magic. There was concern on the mage’s face. “Did I say something wrong?”

[No,] which was quickly signed. [Nothing wrong said. Wait here.] He wasn’t sure if Dorian understood everything signed, but when Lerith disappeared into the tavern and returned with two pints, he was still there. No way to sign or write, he motioned with his head. The two returned back to their little fire and took a seat. 

“Did you not just hear me complain about how the beer here was swill?” the Tevinter asked, looking at the liquid in the mug. Lerith shrugged and simply signed [yes] before taking a drink. After a long bout of silence between them that had the ambience of fire crackling, the journal was brought out again and scribbled in.

‘Sometimes my thoughts interfere with the reality of where I am,’ the words read. ‘I am still skittish around mages. Around those from Tevinter. I have survived horrors that I do not want to ever go back to.’

Dorian looked up from the pages, a soft look on his face and in his eyes. “Ah, You did say you escaped abuse, so you’re from one of the horrible households it seems. I guessed about the slavery when I first saw the collar around your neck.” Ah, observant about that. It must’ve peeked from under his scarf again. Lerith tried his best to keep it hidden, but sometimes the wind had other plans. 

The mage next to him took a deep drink before gagging a little. “At this rate, I’ll be analyzing the nuances of the flavor and how it affects my nausea. I mentioned this before, but you’re not the only one that ran from our beloved Imperium. I refused an arranged marriage, and my father refused, in turn, to accept that. So I ran, before he could use drastic means to try and have me complacent.”

Lerith could only stare in disbelief. No one was safe in Tevinter it seemed. 

Furious scribbling in the journal. ‘I understand. Far more than I wish I did.’ With Dorian’s confusion evident on his face, the mute reached. Took his hand. Dorian’s was so warm compared to his own and it was then that Lerith realized he was shaking. It was when the other’s hand was an inch from the collar did it pull back with a look of shock. Maybe horror.

“... _Blood magic_?”


	5. Forthcoming with Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Solas discuss matters surrounding the mute elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: talk of blood magic more

There were some things that confounded Dorian upon arriving in Ferelden. From the amount of nugs running about, to the poor quality of the alcohol. The near obsession with Mabari in general was a surprise. The treatment of mages was another that didn’t miss his notice either. Of all the things he experienced though, blood magic was  _ not _ one of them. That was something more related to Tevinter, not this… well backwater village was just being mean and he wasn’t feeling that particularly crass.

Did Christoph know of this? Surely not, it would’ve been brought up at this point. It probably was never brought up because of Ferelden’s firm stance against blood magic. Their Lord Inquisitor was a rogue with no magical talent so he probably didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. Well, unless there was a talent for getting on Vivienne’s nerves with his reluctance to wear anything that would distinguish him as Inquisitor. The only reason Dorian himself could sense it was because of how much of the magic ran through the backstreets of his home country. The things he had seen in those dark streets and heard from other Altuses. Mostly the blood of dispensable slaves. Slaves like those his own family kept. Slaves like they presumed Lerith was. 

Dorian, who had been heading to the Chantry, paused there in the gentle falling snow. Civilians and soldiers moved around him, some grimacing at the mage just standing in the middle of the path. For the most part, the Necromancer ignored them. 

He shook the thoughts and flakes of snow from his head before refocusing. Lerith spent most of his time around the hedge mage or in the little house they shared, so surely Solas had some insight. Maybe enough to figure out the ordeal before bringing it up to Christoph. The Tevinter mage headed back the way he had come until he spotted the elf he was looking for. It was easy enough with the way the light reflected off of his head. It looked like he was looking through some book or maybe one of Lerith’s journals. A quick glance about to see if Lerith was around before speaking. 

It seemed the coast was clear of the white haired elf.

“Solas,” he called out. The hedge mage paused in the book before marking it with an herb. “I wish to talk to you about Lerith.” The way the apostate glanced to the door of his home and moved away told enough. Did he have his own suspicions? “I was conversing with our dear mute earlier and he pulled my hand close to where the collar is. Have you ever been close enough to sense  _ blood magic _ ?”

Solas studied Dorian’s visage for a long moment. For a similarly long moment, Dorian thought that the bald mage would be smitten with him. Hopefully he wouldn’t fall over himself like Lerith did a week or so ago.

He and Dorian certainly had their debates and arguments, but how much could this Necromancer mage be trusted? “His is not my story to tell.“ a small pause as he quickly weighed the options in his mind. “But the answer to your question is yes. I was helping him get untangled from his scarf and bag the other morning,” which he was still uncertain how Lerith managed to get tangled, “when I felt it from his neck. Laying like a curse but I’m not certain if it comes from his collar or the neck itself.”

Interesting. “If it truly is blood magic, it wouldn’t be in the collar. Blood magic needs actual blood and flesh to work correctly. Ask any magister in Tevinter and they’ll get uncomfortable and send assassins to your home. They’re forthcoming with information like that,” Dorian pointed out with a quiet chuckle.

Despite his nickname from Varric, Solas did not chuckle. He had heard of horrors from Tevinter. From what Lerith had described to him already through writing in his journal, the mute was a lucky and living example of what Tevinter mages had the potential to do. “If it is a curse of blood magic, that means it’s still active and quite possibly causing him pain.” 

The dark-skinned mage shifted on his feet and listened to the crunch of the snow beneath his boots. Thoughts and past experiences of Tevinter raced through his head again. The way Lerith seemed skittish of magic or people close his neck. If someone used blood magic on him and he was unable to get rid of it, it certainly explained the reasoning for the fear. Maybe that’s why he hid the collar and that tender flesh under a scarf made of material Sera would be proud of. One of those blood magic thoughts came racing to the front of everything. “There is also the potential idea that we’ve not addressed yet.”

_ ‘I understand. Far more than I wish I did.’  _ Those were the exact words Lerith had used before they departed.

An intrigued look from Dorian. That was a nice thing about Solas - he was easy to talk of magic with. “I’ve seen other mages use blood magic to become more powerful. The collar could’ve been put there to keep Lerith from doing damage if he was discovered. The magisters don’t like to share and would view a piece of property doing magic as an insult.“

Silence filled the gap between them. Neither mage was sure how long it stretched on as snow continued to fall around them. Dorian‘s implications were a heavy accusation to be sure and with so many Templars around, the consequences would be severe and swift. “So you are inferring that Lerith may be a blood mage that has been contained by a collar.“ 

The silent and concerned gaze from Dorian spoke more volumes of his worry than words ever could.

  
  



	6. Charming and Scarred Visages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Solas seek the answers to find out about the blood magic they suspect from Lerith.

Lerith woke with a start. He was alone in Solas’ house, laying out on a spare cot brought in for him after they arrived in Haven. How long had he been asleep? He had left Dorian swiftly after their brief chat concerning blood magic. Feeling drained, he had laid down for a quick nap. Sleeping was still a little difficult. The mute was always on edge for the unexpected slaver to nab him up. Haven was safe, but _how_ safe was it? That question had been at the forefront of his mind ever since his escape from the Tevinter villa, even under the Inquisition‘s safety. 

Stretching and combing his tuft of white hair, the mute gathered his bag and scarf. Maybe today he could go and look for more herbs. Or help out at the stables. As long as he didn’t stray too far from the village, there were always witnesses should something happen. 

Ready for going out, the elf headed out only to be flanked by two mages - Dorian and Solas. The former looked both suspicious and worried while the latter inquisitive. Either way, the mute‘s heart reminded him of its place as it thumped hard in his rib cage. 

Had he done something wrong? Lerith hadn’t even really done anything save for teaching his sign language! 

“Lerith,” said Solas in his calm tone to his left. “We have a few questions we wish to ask you.” On Lerith‘s right, Dorian nodded in agreement. Immediately fear made Lerith feel as though he were in the snow in nothing but his smalls. What could they want to talk to him about? Perhaps slavers were spotted in the area, or his owner—

“You’re not in trouble, Lerith,“ though the unspoken word ‘yet’ hung in the chilly air from Dorian. “We have a...concern we wish to ask of you before something comes up.”

The two mages flanked in a manner that Lerith found himself back in Solas‘ home. Dorian took a stand against the now closed door, effectively blocking it while Solas had the elf take a seat on his bed. “I will be clear with you my friend. Dorian and myself have come close enough to sense blood magic upon your person.”

The yellow eyes dilated with fear. That reaction alone spoke volumes against him for the discussion and the two mages glanced at each other in silence. Lerith fidgeted with the strap on his bag, thoughts racing in his head. They knew there was blood magic in him, and maybe had suspicions about it? Maybe they would send him back to Tevinter. He was stupid, he shouldn’t have come here, should have stayed in the Hinterlands—

Boots stepping against the floorboards towards him snapped him out of the thoughts. 

Dorian was in front of him, with Solas taking his place at the door. Yellow eyes met bright bronze but couldn’t read Dorian’s expression. If there was one person in this village that Lerith was scared of, it was this man, this _magister_ standing before him. A man of Tevinter, of power and a mage that could probably do more unspeakable things to him—

“I’ve figured you are a slave, and presumed you escaped from Tevinter judging by the collar. But that collar, Lerith. We need to know. Does the collar keep you from doing blood magic yourself or is it simply a collar to indicate what household owns you?” Straight and to the point. Lerith trembled where he sat on the bed. 

The two thought him to be a blood mage. Thought he did this ordeal with the collar himself. Herbs plopped to the floor where they fell from his bag as he pulled the journal from it. They weren’t important right now. The other two looked to them but did not move to pick them up. No matter, Lerith was focused on writing. They had to know his truth if they thought him a blood mage. 

‘I am not a mage, just a slave. Collar is to mark me of House Vyrantus. Magister is a cruel owner. Uses magic as punishment. Used blood magic on me. It is still there, in my neck.’ Both Solas and Dorian read the words and Lerith looked at his own hands as the two processed what was written. 

“Is this why you can’t speak then?” questioned Dorian and all the elf could do was nod. “Vyrantus. I’ve heard of that house. They apparently own a jetstone quarry in the Kirkwall area, but pays others to tend to it, especially if they had time to torture their own slaves.”

Lerith held a finger up to indicate for Dorian to wait, then wrote more. ‚ _Him_. Magister is a he and his name is Claudian.‘

With it written out, it felt… a little better. At least it looked like Dorian and Solas believed him. The older elf moved forward to crouch in front of the younger. “If I may?” he asked and held up his hands. “No magic. I simply wish to feel what is there.”

The stretch of silence seemed immense. Lerith weighed the options, looked the Tevinter mage up and down, stared for a long moment into space, and then finally nodded. Head tilted back a little, the scarf falling back from his head and waited. 

Before anything touched his neck, there was a warm hand on his shaking one. Lerith looked immediately to see Dorian also crouched next to him and holding one of his hands carefully. “I know that a man as dashing as me so close is startling but you look like you’re about to shake out of your skin. Simply focus on my charming visage and you’ll be alright.”

Despite the circumstances, it was enough to get Lerith to smile. A small one, but it was there and lit his eyes up like embers. The elf almost didn’t notice Solas‘ cool hands touching his jawline, down to the collar. The mute was tense, but kept his eyes on Dorian. How warm he looked, with an aura of confidence about him. The bald mage frowned as his fingers carefully felt at what he could of the collared neck. “The blood magic is still in here, right where your vocal cords are.”

The hands dropped and Lerith visibly relaxed. It was then that Dorian let go of his hand and stood again. A nod to Solas and Lerith wished that the collar could come off so they could see with their eyes that he wasn’t lying. 

The bed shifted as Dorian took a seat next to him. “Should you ever get the brash notion of getting that little trinket removed, by the way, I suppose one of us could do it. A necklace would look far more fetching on you. That, and you’ll need to get it removed before it becomes a hazard of some sort to you. Be glad the only two that know of this is the best looking man of the Inquisition and the resident apostate hobo.”

Lerith snorted with what was clearly amusement at that, while Solas could only glower at the remark. Dorian laughed for the two of them and could only watch Solas take a seat on a chair by the door. Lerith’s laughter sounded like wheezed air - only furthering the two mages just how bad the magic was in his vocal cords 

As the laughter died down between the two of them, Lerith realized just how light he felt now that someone else knew. Dorian and Solas knew, and they weren’t going to use it against him. They wanted to help him. 

Solas, however, decided that there was enough levity as he spoke, “you’ll need to tell Inquisitor Christoph. This is a matter that needs his attention and maybe he’ll be able to use his resources to find a solution to your problem.”

The yellow eyes looked to Dorian as the Necromancer patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Lerith. I’ll go with you so we can distract him with lovely looks.” After a moment of thinking about it, the elf got to his feet and looked between the two of them. A nod and a gesture to lead the way, so to speak. Solas led the three of them, Dorian hanging back with him. Maybe to help him feel better or less alone? Lerith did like that. A small smile crept on his scarred face as they went through the doors of the Chantry. 

Christoph was finishing up a discussion with Cassandra and Leliana before heading towards them. Solas motioned for his attention and the four convened in a quiet corner where others wouldn’t hear. 

“We need to discuss a matter most important with you, Inquisitor.”


End file.
